


(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction

by merisunshine36



Series: Sympathy For The Devil [1]
Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Mob, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-10
Updated: 2011-09-10
Packaged: 2017-10-23 14:52:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/251549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merisunshine36/pseuds/merisunshine36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean is hard at work turning Mark's budding criminal enterprise into the next big game in town. Then Eduardo shows up, and pretty much ruins everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the [Mafia AU](http://archiveofourown.org/series/9888); this section begins with Mark's origin story and ends during [Pleased to Meet You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/238842). Fist bumps to my co-writer and beta thedeadparrot, who wouldn't let me rest until this was finished ♥.

Sean swats Christy on the ass with the copy of _The Crimson_ he picked up during his morning coffee run. Really, there was no reason for her to banish him to the couch; her bed is the size of a small country and there is more than enough room for two.

"What?" she gripes, rolling away from him.

He tosses the paper next to her face and heads back toward the living room; he's lost one of his shoes around here somewhere and he can't find it for the life of him.

"I need you to tell me if you know anything about that Zuckerberg kid they mention in the article," he yells. He drops to the floor and peers under the couch. One of his beloved Ferragamos sits next to a forgotten champagne flute, sticky residue congealed at the bottom of the glass. He leaves behind the latter and goes to sprawl out on the bed next to Christy.

"Who?" she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep.

"Who? What?" Sean mimics, grinning. Christy is definitely not a morning person.

Christy sits up and adjusts her boobs, which make a bid to escape every night from the too-tight tank tops she likes to sleep in. Sean's dick twitches a little, sad and neglected. He's been trying to hook up with Christy since the day they first met, back when Sean was dealing weed and "academic performance enhancers" to all the rich kids at the Harvard Westlake School out in L.A.

He'd always saved the best stuff for Christy, but four years and a few unforgettable acid trips later, his generosity has not made her any more willing to put out. It's all good, though. Sean is a patient man, and in the meantime, Boston is full of of young and eager co-eds who'd love to spend the night with a suave older gentleman like himself.

"Read the front page," he says. "These two sophomores, Zuckerberg and Moskovitz, are being accused of scamming the members of the Harvard Investor's Association out of nearly thirty Gs. Problem is, they can't find enough evidence to pin it on either of them. If he stays out of jail, we might want to invite him over."

She snatches up the paper. Christy's made a name for herself on campus by hosting weekly high-stakes poker games from her apartment. More exclusive than a final club, the only kids she'll invite are the ones who have more money than God, who are so rich that when they go back home to Mumbai or Taipei or Rio for the summer, they have to be driven everywhere so they don't get kidnapped.

"I think I know this kid." She taps her lip thoughtfully. "Yeah, yeah, I do. He was in my art history class, but he stopped coming after like a month."

"You ever talk to him?"

"Once. He asked about our little monthly gatherings, and when I told him he had to be invited by a member, he looked like he wanted to deck me."

There's a niggling feeling in Sean's gut that says he should check out this Zuckerberg kid. Sean has been laying low in Boston ever since an immigrant smuggling ring he was running out of Rancho Cucamonga was busted up by _la migra_ about a year ago. Paying the feds enough to keep his ass out of jail had wiped out nearly all of his assets, and working his way up the ranks in a new city was easier said than done.

Staying with Christy is fine, but Sean is bored. She likes to play it safe; refuses to expand her operation until she has her degree in hand. What the fuck does she need a degree for? Sean never set foot in a college classroom in his life, and he's doing fine. But this Zuckerberg kid--if the story is true, then he just might have the drive and the smarts to get Sean where he needs to go.

"Put something on that shows off your legs, sweets," says Sean. "We're going to pay Mr. Zuckerberg a visit."

 

*

An hour later, he and Christy are standing in the hall in front of the door they believe belongs to Mark. She ignored Sean's request to wear something hot, and instead is wearing her most boring Future Venture Capitalists of America pants and button down just to spite him.

The hall smells like stale pizza and puke, and a little bit like weed smoke. Sean wrinkles his nose and tries not to breathe in too deeply. It took them all of five minutes to figure out Zuckerberg's room number, since Christy is really good at getting information from people. She just flips her hair over one shoulder, squeezes her tits together a little, and offers up a blinding smile, and people start tripping over themselves to tell her what she wants to know.

Sean leans in close to the door. There's a small commotion going on inside, like things are being shuffled around.

"Okay. We need a game plan," he whispers. Sean's hand goes to his hip, where a gun is tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He knows it's probably overkill, but he's walked into too many dangerous situations with to feel safe walking into a room full of strangers without one.

"Sean, he's a twenty year old kid with a failed Ponzi scheme, not a criminal overlord." She pokes at his stomach. "And no one is going to shoot you here, we're at _Harvard_. Jesus Christ, Sean. I can't take you anywhere."

"Look. Whatever, okay? Just knock. We don't have all day. If I were him, I would have skipped the country by now."

Christy rolls her eyes, then plasters on her best fake smile and knocks on the door. All sound ceases, and for a few seconds Sean wonders if it would be better to just kick his way in. He's never tried it before, but he's pretty sure he could pull it off.

It's opened by this skinny, pale blonde boy who bears no resemblance at all to the grainy student ID photos that were run in the paper with the article.

"Hey, is Mark around?"

The kid's eyes go from Christy to Sean, who looks slightly too old to be hanging out in a college dorm.

"Sorry, he's not around."

"Oh," Christy says, pouting a little at what Sean knows in an outright lie. "I'm Christy Lee, from his art history class? I was just coming by to say that I totally support him in this and--"

The door is yanked wide open and the blonde is shuffled out of the way. Inside stands a greasy-haired kid wearing a faded Atari t-shirt. His eyes are cold and flat, and there's a tangled ball of packing tape stuck to his fingers.

"Christy," is all he says.

"Mark, hi. How....how are things?"

"So I'm good enough to be in your presence now?"

Christy isn't cowed by him, just crosses her arms over her chest and serves up her best withering glare.

"Did you do it?" she asks. Sean loves how she does that, how she's so direct. It's really fucking hot.

Mark gives a one-shouldered shrug. "They think I did," he replies, which is as good as a _yes_. Sean clenches and unclenches his fists in his pockets, excited.

"Well, what are you gonna do now?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm dropping out. They offered us a deal. Leave campus, and there's no further investigation. So we're out."

"Mark, I don't think you should talk about this while you''re _standing in the hallway_ ," hisses the blonde kid, eyes darting nervously up and down the hall.

"Whatever, I've got packing to do." He disappears inside again, which Christy takes as her cue to drag Sean inside with her. Sometimes, he honestly loves this woman.

*

The few pieces of furniture in the room are totally obscured by mountains of boxes, all half-packed with the contents spilling out onto the floor. A third, redheaded roommate looks up from scrawling a note to himself in nearly illegible handwriting on the side of one of the boxes.

"Who's this?" He points at them with his Sharpie.

"Christy Lee, and..." Mark narrows his eyes, registering Sean's existence for the first time. Sean tries not to feel offended.

"Sean Parker," he offers. "I work with Christy."

The redhead's eyes go back and forth between the two of them, trying to figure out why they're here. "Dustin," is all he offers, then returns to work.

It's painfully obvious that they are going to be ignored if they continue to just stand around. The blonde has already disappeared back into his corner of the suite, ostensibly to pretend like none of this is happening. Mark is busy balling up his t-shirts and tossing them into boxes. Sean exchanges a look with Christy, who just shrugs and looks away. She isn't interested in Mark, and just being here means that she's already in deeper than she wants to be.

Sean decides to cut to the chase.

"I want to know how you did it, and I want to help you do it again," Sean announces. "But next time, it'll be bigger. And you won't get caught."

All activity in the room comes to a halt.

"You want to do what?" Dustin stops packing, and gets up to cross the room and stand next to Sean. Or rather, put himself between Sean and Mark. Cute.

Sean is keenly aware of the way Mark's attention is hyper-focused on him, even though he's pretending to pack up the mess of computer paraphernalia sitting on his now-bare mattress.

"Your game is good, but it had a few flaws. One, your targets were all in close proximity. I'd bet even some of them knew each other, and that's a definite no-no. Two, the return on investment you were offering was too much, too fast--someone was bound to know something was up. Three, you didn't have anyone on the inside watching your back." He stops for a second now that he's got everyone's full attention, even Mark, who's stopped pretending that he's not listening. "But I will give you this. The part where you put all the money in Florida in an account in Moskovitz's little sister's name? Now that was smart."

"Shit," Dustin breathes, his mouth falling open. "How'd you figure that out?"

Sean doesn't want to show his hand, so he just looks smug and smiles at them. In truth, it was a lucky guess--the paper had mentioned Moskovitz's family down south and their protestations of his innocence. Zuckerberg is too smart to put anyone directly related to him at risk, so it would make sense that he'd set up Moskovitz to take the fall if necessary. Smart, but ruthless.

Mark comes up to him and hands him a roll of packing tape.

"We'll talk later. Now, we have packing to do."

Sean thinks this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

*

"Okay guys. Let's talk strategy," says Sean. He drops the pot of spaghetti sauce he's just pulled off of the stove onto the scarred kitchen table. It's one of the few pieces of furniture they bothered to pick up for the apartment, even though they've been there for a few weeks now.

They live in a tiny section of a house that's older than all of them put together, a messy hodgepodge of rooms trying their best to be a functional living space. It's drafty and full of mouse holes and something is always leaking, broken or both. Mark took the one real bedroom, and Dustin is in the living room. Sean is pretty sure the nook that houses his bed was actually a pantry at one point.

"Ooh, food," says Dustin, inhaling deeply as the smell of garlic and onions fills the room. Neither he nor Mark can cook, which sucks for all of them, because Sean can only cook two things. Spaghetti, and chicken cacciatore. They were his mom's favorites, and Sean is a total mama's boy. Or was, rather, before the whole "life of crime" thing started.

"I talked to Billy Olson," says Mark around a mouthful of noodles. "He's wiling to meet with us, although he's still pretty pissed."

"I would be too, if you'd stolen five thousand dollars from me." Sean spreads a napkin out on his lap, and Mark smirks at him. Sean lets it roll off his back--being a criminal doesn't mean you have to become a Philistine. "But that's okay, because this time, you're going to make him even more money."

"And how exactly are we gonna do that?" Dustin asks.

"First of all, you need to establish a source of revenue. Yeah, you have some money now, but it's gonna go faster than you think. The quickest way to get there is narcotics trafficking."

Dustin looks warily at Mark. "Mark, you said we wouldn't get into that kind of thing."

"Shut up, Dustin," is all Mark says. Dustin frowns at his spaghetti, but doesn't say anything else. "What are you thinking of?"

"I'm not talking about driving down the street in a car with tinted windows. No, we're gonna go classier. You know Christy's little parties? Sure, they're a good place to lose a couple thousand, but they're about as dry as a Quaker meeting. We're just gonna provide a little chemical excitement. Premium product at a premium price. From there, we'll expand into general student markets--Harvard, MIT, BU."

A few strands of spaghetti hang forgotten on the end of Mark's fork as his attention shifts away from the present and toward the execution of their imagined future. Sean keeps talking, caught up in the excitement of having a new project at hand.. He hasn't actually run this past Christy yet, but he's sure she'll agree. No more skulking around the edges of Boston doing nothing, he's going all out this time and it's going to be _awesome_.

"Second of all, you need connections. You can't make this city start singing your tune unless you know the right people in the right places."

"Who do you have in mind?' asks Mark.

"Mayor Winklevoss, of course."

"So you expect us to what, just show up and demand that he hand over his Outlook contacts?" Dustin scoffs. He is less impressed with this plan than Sean would like, but he can't worry about that. Right now, his focus is Zuckerberg.

Mark shakes his head slowly. "No, Dustin. His sons Tyler and Cameron are seniors at Harvard. And I bet they show up at Christy's poker nights. Become friends with them, and you've got an in."

"Exactly." Sean feels a glowing sense of pride, like Mark is his kid and he just hit a home run for his little league team. "Good thinking, Mark."

Dustin just rolls his eyes; he doesn't buy Sean's obvious flattery. But Sean can see the small smile that Mark is doing his best to hold back. There's a vibrating synergy between them as they imagine all the possibilities that lay before them, unfolding one by one, until the whole world is at their feet.

*

The most important thing in this business is to know people. Or rather, to make sure other people know you. Which is why Sean is taking one for the team and dragging Dustin and Mark out on a Brooks Brothers field trip whether they like it or not.

"Why would I spend $300 on a suit?" Dustin asks. "Do you know what I could do with $300 that isn't suit buying?"

"I don't think I asked you that," Sean says as he cuts off the soccer mom ahead of him and speeds through a yellow light. Unfortunately for him, soccer mom is hot on his tail and pulls up alongside him, leaning out her window to tell him a number of exciting places he can stick his gear shift.

"Anytime baby, you want my number?" he yells out the window. She gives him the finger before making a sharp right turn and disappearing.

He turns to face Mark, who proceeds to burst his bubble with an ill-concealed scowl.

"Sean, that was unnecessary."

"What? I didn't do anything," Sean protests. If they don't want to have a good time, fine.

He turns and glues his eyes to the road again, recently cleared after April decided to greet them with a delightful six inches of snow. If there's one thing Sean hates about this place, it's the weather--he can't remember the last time he felt properly warm.

The following week, they arrive at Christy's place fashionably late--Sean is a regular face at these get-togethers, but he doesn't want Mark and Dustin to stick out as the obvious new guys. It's a pretty swanky pad, but Mark doesn't seem to notice any of that. Christy welcomes them at the door with cheek kisses and brightly colored cocktails for them all, which Mark and Dustin both turn down in favor of a couple beers.

"You did a good job, Sean." She runs one pink fingernail down the center of Dustin's tie and smiles, making his neck flush a dull pink. "Your ugly ducklings clean up very nice."

"Um. Thank you?" says Dustin.

Mark squirms in his suit--Sean gives him an hour, tops, before the jacket gets abandoned on the back of a a chair somewhere. "Tell me who's here tonight."

Christy brings out her shiny new Blackberry and pulls up an email that she hands over to Sean. "I'm trusting you with this, but if you upset my clients I will have your head on a platter."

Sean peruses the list, identifying potential targets. He knows a lot of these people, but doesn't know how many of them would survive a conversation with Mark.

"Moskovitz, you're in charge of Olson. Your goal tonight is to woo him, make sure he's ours for good. By the end of the night, you need to be his best friend."

Dustin pales a little. "How am I supposed to do that?"

Christy gently removes the bottle from his hand and sets it down on a side table. "Come with me, Dustin. We'll get you a big boy drink and then I'll tell you _all_ about it."

Mark looks a little wistfully at Dustin's retreating back as he and Christy disappear into the crush of suit and designer dress-clad twentysomethings trying their best to imitate their parents.

"You're sure the Winklevoss twins want to meet me," Mark says, skeptical.

"Of course they do. Men like them are attracted to things that will make them money. You have a proven record there, so it should be easy. We'll go over there, we'll talk, we'll smile, and then a few weeks from now, you'll receive a phone call from them where they ask you to hang out. Except it won't be to just hang out, it'll be a business meeting. And that, my friend, will be the beginning of a beautiful relationship."

 

*

There's a part of Sean that's irrationally protective of Mark. He reminds Sean of a younger version of himself, right when he was first getting his feet wet and stupidly excited about everything. If he could, he'd keep Mark out of the often-messy back end of things. But Mark isn't stupid, and neither is Sean. Once you're in, you're in all the way. So when Mark asks Sean if he can ride along the next time he visits one of their suppliers, Sean agrees to it, even though he doesn't want to.

The whole operation shouldn't take more than a few minutes. You exchange pleasantries, count the money, shake hands, and go. He even lets Mark do it himself a few times, although he really isn't all that good at the pleasantries part. They'll have to work on that.

Selling drugs is easy. It's a high-demand market, and as long as you stay out of someone else's territory, it's not _all that_ dangerous.

But sometimes, things go wrong.

Mark is doing the driving this time, since Paul is a guy that Sean has known for a while, back from when he was still getting his start in L.A. It was Sean, in fact, who recommended that he come up to the East Coast for a while. Paul is someone that Sean can trust, which isn't something that can be said of too many people in this business.

So Sean's guard is down when they pull up to the docks, where everything smells like centuries upon centuries of salt and fishy rot. The guy he's meeting, was mostly a small time dealer when they were friends back in L.A. But he's moved up in Boston, and now he's Sean's direct contact whenever he's looking for coke, which is in high demand right now since they're coming up on the end of the academic year and all the college kiddies are looking for one last high before they dig in for finals and leave for the summer.

Paul thumbs through the stack of bills Sean has handed him, counting them out under his breath. There's dried blood around his cuticles where he's bitten all the skin away. He's twitchier than usual--something is off, but he can't quite put a finger on it.

"This isn't enough," Paul says, his voice hard.

Sean laughs if off. "What do you mean, it isn't enough. $2,000, that's what we agreed on, right?"

Paul shakes his head, and pushes the stack of bills back into Sean's hand. He doesn't quite get what's going on here, why Paul is acting so weird. This is the same guy who used to spend afternoons driving around with Sean, getting high and yelling obscene things in mangled Spanish at the girls they passed.

"Nah, man. Things are getting more expensive now, I need more. Come on, gimme $2,500, don't act like you don't have it. I know you've been selling to those kids down at Harvard and MIT, that's a one hundred percent markup, easy."

If there's one thing Sean Parker doesn't like, it's being cheated. He stiffens and backs away.

"Fuck that, Paul. Two thousand is already more than you should be getting." Sean pockets the money and turns to head back to the car, annoyed. This was such a waste of time.

He gets about three feet before Paul grabs him from behind, gets his arm around Sean's neck good and tight, and begins dragging him backward. The cool metal of a switchblade is right up against his cheek, and all Sean can think is _fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck_ , he left his gun in the car with Mark, because he didn't think he'd need it, because he and Paul were friends.

"You're lying, Parker. I know you've got more somewhere, you were always such a fucking liar."

"I don't, I don't," Sean babbles. His heart is racing and he can feel an invisible fist around his throat. It closes down tighter with each panicky inhale and he can't breathe and the knife looks pretty fucking sharp and _where the hell is Mark_? He closes his eyes and tries to remain calm, because how loser would it be if he died during a drug deal because of an asthma attack?

He hears the distant sound of a car door slamming shut, followed by footsteps. It's Mark, and he's got the gun with him. Sean isn't a complete idiot, so he's taken Dustin and Mark out to the shooting range a few times for practice. Dustin is a actually a better shot than Mark. He gets weirdly excited about guns and the potential for violence; Mark just sees it as a practicality.

Mark trains he gun sight at a spot between Paul's eyes, stance wide and hands in the right places just like Sean made him practice all those times.

Paul must have relied on the fact that Sean wouldn't be packing either, since he doesn't reach for a gun and just presses the blade in close so that it bites at the soft skin of Sean's cheek. A cold sweat breaks out over Sean's entire body.

"What the hell are you waiting for?" Sean yells. "Shoot him!"

There's an explosion of sound, and something wet hits the side of Sean's face. He can smell the hot cordite in the air and when he licks his lips, the taste of blood blooms in his mouth. Not his blood, but Paul's. He's crumpled in a heap on the ground with half of his face missing, a pool of red growing around him.

Sean stumbles toward Mark, who isn't moving ( _why the fuck isn't he moving?_ ) and drags him back to the car. He climbs into the passenger seat and chokes out a hoarse command to just fucking _drive_ before he tears apart the glove compartment trying to find his backup inhaler so that he can breathe again.

Mark kicks the car into gear and tears back out onto the road, only slowing down once they've put a few miles behind them. Sean peels off his shirt and uses the few inches that aren't drenched in blood to wipe off his face. He gives himself a few minutes to calm down before he goes to check the gash in the mirror. When he prods the area it sends a flare of pain down into his jaw, but it doesn't look too deep--nothing that will need stitches, anyway.

Sean isn't too worried about himself, he's had worse. But Mark, on the other hand--this was his first kill.

"You okay?" Sean asks quietly.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." Mark continues to stare straight ahead, cutting around the few cars that are out on the road this time of night. Sean can't see too well in the darkness of the car, but as far as he can tell Mark is holding it together.

"That's why I like you, Mark. You're a real professional." Sean slides a slightly bloody package out from underneath the seat. "Look, I got the goods."

"Hunh?" Mark says. Sean isn't sure if the sound of the gun discharging messed with his hearing or if he's having a delayed reaction to what just happened. Could be both.

"The coke," Sean repeats. "I got it, and it didn't cost us a dime."

"Oh. Good." He doesn't sound particularly pleased or displeased, his voice is just empty and lifeless.

The silence stretches out between them, loaded and uncomfortable. Sean turns on the radio, only to have Mark turn it off again thirty seconds later.

"We should all have protection, not just you." Mark nods to himself. "Tomorrow, we go shopping. I want one--no two, for each of us, and one in every room."

"Yeah, Mark, sure, whatever you want." He doesn't bother explaining how buying ten guns all at once would tip off every law enforcement official and crime lord in the entire state.

"This can't happen again."

Sean doesn't say anything else, because of course it's going to happen again. What does he expect?

They drive a few more minutes before Mark hisses out a low voiced, " _Shit_ ," and pulls off the road into a pretty little cul de sac where each driveway is lit up by those fake gas lights. Mark fumbles with his seatbelt and it's only when he opens the door and the overhead light comes on that Sean can see how pale Mark is, how badly he's shaking.

Mark barely makes it out of the car before he's puking his last three meals up into someone's hydrangea bush. The retching noises go on for a few minutes until he's just standing there, hunched over with his hands on his knees. Sean climbs out of the car and puts a hand on Mark's back. He massages tiny soothing circles along the base of his neck, kind of like Sean's mother used to do when he got the flu as a kid. There's a moment where Sean realizes he's the only one who ever gets to see Mark like this, vulnerable and open. And that's cool, because other than Christy, Mark is pretty much the only family he's got.

Sean feels a little twinge of regret when Mark abruptly twists away. Whatever he was feeling before is closed off now, hidden in a place that Sean can't get to. He spits one last time, wipes his mouth off on his sleeve.

"Don't tell Dustin about this. Or anybody." Mark swallows convulsively, like for a moment his stomach was considering a repeat performance.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," Sean replies. "It happens to everyone."

Actually, it didn't happen to Sean. But a little lie here and there never hurt anyone.

Mark latches onto Sean's arm so hard that it hurts. "I'm not kidding, Sean. Don't tell anyone."

Sean raises his hands defensively. "I got it, okay. Jeez."

"Thank you," he bites out, like it pains him to say it.

Sean casts about for the right words to say. This isn't exactly an occasion they prepare you for. It would be so much easier if he could just stop at a CVS and grab a greeting card with, "Congratulations on Your First Kill!" splashed across the front and a pithy poem on the inside.

Instead, he just gives Mark a pat on the back and says, "Look at it this way--you've got your first post-murder puke out of the way, so from here on out? There's no way to go but up. "

*

When it comes to the Winklevoss twins, things go pretty much exactly like Sean said they would, because Sean Parker has been in this game for almost a decade now and he knows his shit. They leverage their connections through Christy to expand the Winklevoss family's stake in the collegiate narcotics trade to include UMass and those lovely ladies at Wellesley. A few carefully greased palms allow them to identify a few construction companies that are inflating their invoices for city contracts, and make sure they're reminded of where their loyalties lie. By the time summer rolls around, Mark is officially on the payroll at City Hall, complete with an office he's been in exactly once and a cityofboston.gov email he rarely checks.

At first, Mark doesn't share a lot of the details on his work for Mayor Winklevoss, not that his silence keeps Mark from requesting Sean's presence whenever he needs help with something.

"The mayor has a friend who wants to set up a restaurant on the site of that coffee shop around the corner from us," Mark says, fingers flying as he counts out stacks of hundred dollar bills. "I offered him twenty percent more than current market value. When that didn't work, I took a crowbar to his car, but he won't budge."

Sean sets down the pair of fingernail clippers he'd been toying with. He's overdue for a manicure, and he's _this_ close to convincing Dustin that he should get one, too.

"What do you know about him?"

Mark halts mid-motion and tilts his head toward Sean. "Nothing--I just want the piece of land he's sitting on."

Mark's expression is carefully neutral. He wants the information that Sean has, but he doesn't want to have to ask for it. Lucky for him, Sean is a generous guy.

"Don't go after him, go after the people _around_ him. Kids, wife, best friend from high school. If his mother owns a house, set it on fire. If his daughter has a job, make sure she loses it."

"Hmm." Mark returns to his accounting duties, but Sean can already see the wheels in his head turning.

Mark starts opening up to Sean a little more after that, and soon enough, he and Dustin are waking up at all times of night to execute what's fast becoming a normal routine: hunt down the target, execute the objective, dump the evidence, and get home before the cops show up.

They're good enough at what they do that the Winklevosses give them more work, bigger targets with greater consequences if they get caught. They don't all go down easy, either. On more than one occasion, Sean catches Mark mid-wince when he's forgotten that he took a fist to the face in a bar the night before, or that his ribs are still taped up from a bad run-in with the Irish. And every now and then, when he thinks no one is looking, Sean will catch Mark rubbing an absentminded thumb over one of his bruises, his mouth twisting upward into the faint suggestion of a smile.

*

Mark is like a two year old; he always needs something new and shiny to play with. He's already figured out that in the grand scheme of things, he's not terribly vital to the success of the Winklevoss empire. Mark and his entourage are just one group among dozens of runners they've got all over the city, each one easily replaceable. But Sean's been working a few angles on his own, getting in touch with old friends and making new ones.

"It's time we started expanding, " Sean says as he takes a the bite out the pot brownie he just pulled out of the oven. Asthma may try and get him down, but at the end of the day, Sean Parker is a master of improvisation. "You can't always rely on City Hall, you need to make some friends of your own."

"Like who?"

"I was thinking of Dominic Celuzza, for starters." Sean just lets that information hang there, for a second. If Mark has been doing his research, he'll know that Celuzza controls a drug ring with contacts as far south as Florida.

"Do I have to wear the suit?" They haven't managed to get him into it again since that night at Christy's place, although Dustin swears he saw Mark in a shirt with buttons once.

"You want them to take you seriously?"

Mark wears the suit.

Dom Celuzza is a tall guy in his forties, thin as a knife's edge and just as dangerous. His fingers are loose around a tumbler of whiskey, which makes it easy to see that the tip of his thumb is missing. Sean watches Mark's eyes dart across the bar, taking in the subtle opulence of the place. The place is packed with denizens of the underworld, a Who's Who of America's most wanted.

"Seanie!" Dom shouts. He opens his arms wide and drags Sean in for a kiss on the cheek. "Where you been all this time?"

"I'm a busy man," Sean says, grinning wide. He helped Dom out a while back when he was looking for a way to get into online credit card theft, and Dom has given him a hand a few times in return.

"Who's your friend?" he asks, gesturing toward Mark, who has been lurking silently at Sean's side all this time.

Sean introduces Mark, who Dom already knows about since his nephew is at Harvard. He wants to hear all about how Mark pulled off his little stunt, and Mark is more than happy to tell him. Celuzza nods along with the intense focus of someone who is already really wasted, where they're focusing as hard as they can but will forget everything within the hour. Sean knows that look well; he used to see it on his father's face all the time.

Once Mark looks settled, Sean abandons the bar to answer the siren song of this incredibly hot girl who made an entrance a few minutes ago. Her name is Lilith and she stands taller than Sean in her heels, ridiculous curves in all the right places. They make small talk until she waves a little baggie full of white powder beneath his nose and drags him to a table in the corner, and anyone who thinks Sean is going to turn such a beautiful opportunity down is an idiot.

It's been a while since he did blow. Mark has become weirdly puritanical about anything stronger than weed since Billy started to crash and burn. It makes Sean feel awesome, like he has live wires under his skin, like he can do _anything_. Unfortunately, after a little bit of making out Lilith is dragged off by one of her girlfriends, probably so they can compare boob jobs in the restroom. She left the coke behind, so he pockets it and goes off in search of Mark again.

Mark has been taking obvious advantage of their free access to the top shelf liquor here. By the time Sean locates him he's three sheets to the wind, talking twice as fast as usual, hands flying. He's even got that creepy spark in his eye that shows up whenever he's really obsessing over something.

"The primary issue with your method of operation is the number of inefficiencies you're taking on," Mark says. "Your brother is clearly skimming off the top of the protection money you're collecting. You really shouldn't let him do that."

"Oh really?" Celuzza drawls. "So what would you do, if you were in my situation?" He's projecting a practiced nonchalance as he leans against the bar. The bartender, on the other hand, is just shaking his head silently as he wipes down the nonexistent moisture off the dark mahogany surface.

"Mark! Why don't we give Mr. Celuzza a break here." Sean says, throwing an arm around Mark's shoulder.He doesn't pick fights unless he's sure he can win, and this isn't one of those times.

Celuzza casually waves Sean away. "No, No, let Mr. Zuckerberg finish." He waves some of his other companions over. "My little friend here is giving me advice on how to run my business, you might wanna hear some of this."

Mark shrugs, entirely oblivious to how this entire situation is rapidly going down the toilet. In fact, he looks pleased, the Cheshire-cat grin on his face growing in direct proportion to the size of his audience. It softens all the lines in his face, making him look younger than he is, like someone easily crushed.

"I think you should get rid of him." Mark announces, self-satisfied. Sean is reluctantly impressed--there aren't many people who would criticize Celuzza to his face and get away with it.

"Oh really? And how do you suggest I do that? I should kill him? My own brother?"

"If it works."

Celuzza just starts laughing, long and loud, his face a splotchy red from all the alcohol he's been drinking. Sean decides right then and there that they're leaving.

"It's been a pleasure, Dom," says Sean, offering his hand. Celuzza wipes the tears from the corner of his eyes and nods, then mangles Sean's fingers in a bone-crushing grip. He can see Mark from the corner of his eye, trading handshakes with a few of the other men.

"It was good to see you, Sean. But if you bring that kid around here to talk shit about my brother again and I'll cut out his tongue. You got me?"

Celuzza pats him on the back and smiles.

 

*

Mark keeps running his mouth all the way home, full of plans for his future as king of the city. Sean feeds off his excitement, telling him stories about how he'd stepped up to help Celuzza after their last guy, some two-bit community college hack, had been dragged off by the police. Really, someone should tell Mark about the danger they'll all be in if they keep progressing unchecked. But why spoil the fun?

"Did you see that, back there? I think they really liked us." says Mark, nodding.

Sean could've had said something about the way Celuzza's consigliere was watching Mark with narrowed eyes all evening. But shit, he looks so happy right now. There's an intense spark in his eyes that Sean usually only sees before shit gets real and the body count begins to rise. Eventually, Mark gets this funny look on his face, and Sean realizes he's been staring a little longer than is normal.

"What?" demands Mark.

The lines on the road keep wavering back and forth in his line of vision. Mark tried to take the keys from him, but fuck that shit, Sean is totally fine. This is nothing; just a teeny tiny buzz. A baby buzz. Sean sucks in a breath through his teeth, taps his fingers against the steering wheel. He's always believed that the only way to get what you want is to go out and take it.

"I think we should fuck," Sean says, and just lets the words hang there in the air.

Mark's eyebrows crawl towards his hairline; the back of his neck flushes a deep red.

"Okay...yeah."

Sean likes to do things right, so he takes the time to steer Mark into his bedroom. Kissing Mark is pretty much exactly how he thought it would be, hot and eager with a hint of teeth. Mark yanks Sean's shirt out of his trousers so fast that a button goes flying off into one corner.

"Hey, hey, slow down, I'm not going anywhere," Sean laughs. He gets a hand around Mark's wrist so as to preserve the integrity of his shirt, and can feel his pulse racing underneath. Mark shoots him an irritated look, intense and dark, and yeah, okay, fuck the shirt. Sean kicks the door shut and orders him onto the bed, clothes off, facedown, arms above his head.

"Don't move," he tells Mark, and gets a little excited to see his shoulders tense in response. Sean sucks a series of bruises into the skin of his back, each one dark purple and permanent and _his_. There's a warm glow of self-satisfaction deep in his chest as he watches Mark's brain go offline, his fingers kneading the edge of the mattress.

Sean whispers all kinds of things in Mark's ear as he fucks him, tells him how amazing he is, how smart, how the city will never know what hit it. Mark just blinks the sweat out of his eyes, and nods.

Sean rolls out of bed immediately afterward and stumbles into the bathroom on shaky legs to piss and stare at himself in the mirror. He's not sure he likes what he sees.

On the way back he runs into Dustin. He's coming out of the kitchen with a slice of cold pizza in his hand and his laptop tucked under one arm. Dustin is handling a lot of their routine shakedowns these days, and it shows in the tired set of his mouth. They're going to have to start expanding, soon--Dustin can't manage it all on his own forever.

"Don't fuck it up, Sean," is all he says, then disappears back into the living room before Sean's sleepy, post-coital brain can come up with a good response.

Mark is already asleep by the time Sean returns, curled up on one side with his mouth hanging open.The smell of Mark's sweat and the cologne Sean made him put on earlier lingers on his skin. Sean slides under the quilts and tucks himself against Mark's back with one arm draped around his waist, tells himself he's only doing it because it's cold.

 

*

 

By the time Sean rejoins the living the following morning, Mark's side of the bed is cold and empty. Come winter, Mayor Winklevoss is going to announce his bid for reelection, which means that the twins have already put Mark to work getting Boston's various interest groups in line. There's a gaping hole in Sean's stomach from being on a liquid diet for the last twelve hours, but the hangover he's sporting means that he won't be downing anything other than coffee anytime soon.

If he sniffs Mark's pillow before rolling out of bed and pulling his boxers over his hips, then no one ever has to know.

He walks into the kitchen and is struck squarely in the eye by a flying piece of cereal.

"Oh shit, sorry." It's Chris, who seems to be hanging around a lot more lately--he'll show up with whatever he's reading in his lit class of the moment and camp out on the living room floor for a few days before disappearing back into his student life. Sean doesn't quite get him yet, the way he goes back and forth between sweet Southern gentility and something sharper, meaner.

"Hey," says Dustin, his smile a little tighter around the edges than usual. There's a glass of milk in front of him, and he alternates sips with stuffing handfuls of Kix into his mouth.

"Guys, we have bowls, use them," Sean says, hating the words as soon as they come out of his mouth. When did he turn into such a loser?

"They're dirty." Dustin uses the back of his hand to wipe a stray droplet of milk from his chin. "So, uh...Mark seemed pretty happy this morning. Sorry if I...sorry."

"Yeah, we had a good time," Sean replies. He can't keep a grin off his face when he thinks of how he played Mark like a fiddle last night. "With Mark and I, there's this kind of understanding. A meeting of equal minds."

"Are we talking about the same Mark?" Chris asks.

Sean ignores them--they don't know what he knows. He begins making a mental list of everything they have to get done that day. It's a long list, but luckily, he's already thought of a solution that will make things easier going forward. "Hey Chris, Dustin and I have a couple errands we need to run today. Wanna come with?"

"Sean, no." Dustin interjects. His face is actually serious for once. "Leave him out of it."

"Why don't you let Chris speak for himself? He's an adult, he can make his own decisions."

They both stare at Chris, who shifts awkwardly in his seat. He looks like he wants to hide behind the giant book on liberation theology he's got propped up on the kitchen table...but he also looks intrigued.

He takes a deep breath and clears his throat. "Yeah...yeah, I think I'll come."

 

*

Chris just hangs back at first, watching. Sean knows he's hit jackpot when he doesn't so much as flinch when Dustin takes a wrench to the knuckles of the owner of a small restaurant who doesn't seem to understand that a payment due on the 16th doesn't meant the 17th or the 20th, it means the 16th.

"I'm sorry you had to see that," mutters Dustin. He frowns at the small spatter of blood on his jacket cuff. "Usually they just hand it over."

A shock of blond hair falls into Chris's eyes as he stares thoughtfully at the wrench in his hands.

"Do you think I could do the next one? Your method is good, now, but there are only so many people's fingers you can break before they decide it's easier to just pay the Italians to protect them from _you_."

Sean frowns. His methods work perfectly fine, where does this kid get off on telling him otherwise? Maybe bringing him along was a mistake after all.

Dustin twists around in the front seat so he can talk to Chris without looking in the rearview mirror. "What are we supposed to do, then? Ask nicely?"

There's something twisted in Chris' expression when he replies. "No, you just have to report that giant dead rat that was back near the salad station."

Dustin frowns. "What dead rat? I've worked in restaurants before, and that kitchen was disgustingly clean."

Sean is confused at first, but the more he thinks about it, the more he sees it with perfect clarity. He knew Chris would be useful.

"No, Dustin, I'm pretty sure there was a rat back there," Sean says. "We should get the Winklevoss twins to tell us who in the Health Department supervises that kind of thing. That kind of violation could get a restaurant shut down for good."

" _Oh_ ," Dustin says as realization dawns on his face. "Shit, Chris, that's a really good idea. They must be teaching you something in those classes on Chaucer and 19th Century Gothic novels that we missed out on."

"Dustin, who has the wrench in their hand at this moment--me or you?"

"Point taken," Dustin says, laughing.

*

They celebrate Chris' official membership in their little family by buying four of the fattest steaks they can find and throwing them on the rusted-out grill that was behind the house when they moved in.

"This will probably give us tetanus, cancer, or both," Chris says. He yanks the grill free from the clutches of the weeds that are trying to consume it.

"But fire kills things, so we should be fine," insists Dustin. It's flawed logic, but they can live with it.

There's a fight with over the best way to pile the charcoal until Chris politely shoves them aside (he's Southern, he _knows_ his barbeque) and makes quick work of the entire thing. Once the fire is roaring, Chris sends him and Dustin off to hunt down a couple of six-packs while he handles the actual cooking.

"Chris, why didn't you ever do this for us back at Kirkland?" says Dustin, moaning a little as the hot, salty grease drips down his chin.

"You can't do much with a hot pot and a microwave," Chris replies, shrugging.

"You could move in here," suggests Sean. "There's plenty of floorspace, or you could just evict Dustin from his couch."

"So you can keep me barefoot, pregnant, and in front of the stove?" he snorts. "Sorry, but there is only one semester left between me and a Harvard diploma."

The smile Dustin gives Chris is a little wistful. Every now and then, Sean will catch Dustin online clicking through MIT's open course catalogue. He still regrets bombing out of Harvard in such spectacular fashion, unlike Mark, who simply ignored his parents' tersely worded emails about how disappointed they were in him.

"Anybody heard from Mark today?" Dustin asks, changing the subject. "It's almost seven, and he said he'd be back early."

Chris neatly slices off a piece of steak, chews, and swallows before he speaks. "He seemed fine this morning when he was having his usual breakfast of Mountain Dew and donuts."

Sean thinks back to of the events of last night, and how they'd narrowly avoided disaster. His memory of the evening is obscured by a haze of drugs, alcohol, and sex.

As if on cue, the door slams open and they can hear Mark's shuffling footsteps coming towards the kitchen. Sean is more relieved than he wants to admit at the sight of Mark in his wrinkled dress shirt, until he notices that there's a trickle of dried blood on his forehead, and his wrist is bundled in what looks like a mile of ace bandages.

"Hey," he says, and goes directly for the lone steak still waiting on the counter. He dumps it onto a plate and grabs some silverware, not caring at all that his food is still cold. They all stare at him in stunned silence as he pulls out the chair next to Sean. It takes Mark a moment to figure out that he's not going to get very far with a knife, a fork, and one functioning hand.

Chris is the first person to regain his voice. "Can I help you with that?"

Dustin is more direct--his anger lurks close to the surface, especially where his friends are concerned. "What happened to you? And why didn't you call us?"

Mark yanks off his tie and tosses it next to his plate in a crumpled ball. "Fuck off, Dustin, you're not my mother."

"Mark, you dragged us all into this." There's a hard note in Dustin's voice. "So when something happens, it's not just about you, it's about all of us."

A tense silence hangs over them. Mark drops his knife onto his plate, then picks up his dinner and leaves the room again without so much as a backward glance.

"Mark--" Dustin begins. He pushes his chair from the table and makes a move to go after him.

"Hold it. I got this," says Sean, pushing him back into his seat again.

"If you make this worse--" Dustin starts, his eyes taking on that dark look that they've all become familiar with in the last few months.

Sean just laughs it off. "Whoa, whoa, no need for threats, Moskovitz. We're all on the same team here."

Sean intentionally steps on all the creaky floorboards in the hall so that Mark knows he's coming, but doesn't bother to knock before pushing his way in.

"They wanted me to apologize," Mark bites out as soon as Sean enters. He's sitting crosslegged on the floor next to his bed, staring blankly at the wall with the knife hanging out of his mouth. His dinner sits next to him on the floor, forgotten. Dustin and Chris complain that Mark never talks to them, but Sean doesn't have that problem. Talking to Mark is like talking to a younger, fashion-inept version of himself; Sean can see right through him.

"Who, Celuzza?"

"The Winklevii. They were embarrassed because they think I made them look bad in front of Celuzza. I spent the last four hours on my knees in a parking lot in Roxbury because Tyler thinks that putting a gun down my throat and knocking me around will teach me a lesson."

A cold trickle of rage crawls down the back of Sean's neck; he wants to murder them both. Wants to, but can't. He pinches the bridge of his nose, exasperated. "Look, we both know you're smarter than all of those guys put together."

"Exactly."

"And all you want is your chance to get out of the gate and prove yourself."

"Yes, right, that's what I'm talking about. They have these ridiculous rules about tradition and networks and the family and all they do is slow things down. We're not going to be like that, we're going to be different." He points the knife at a spot directly between Sean's eyes. "I just need the resources to get there."

Sean captures Mark's wrist, as much to get the pointy end of a knife out of his face as to have the opportunity to touch him again. Mark's eyes track the motion of Sean's thumb along the blue veins just beneath his skin.

"What are you doing?" Mark asks, confused.

"I'm--" Sean pulls his hand away slowly, pretends to pick a piece of lint from his shirt. Mark probably just needs some time to get his head together; he's had a rough day. "Okay, we don't mix business with pleasure. I get it, I like that. It's good how you stay focused."

"I thought we were talking about the Winklevii."

"We are." says Sean. "Look, I know you want to be successful, but you can't get there overnight. Get too big too quick, and you'll wake up tomorrow morning with a bullet bouncing around in your skull."

Mark looks at Sean with that same flat stare he gives everyone who fails to interest him. "I'm not you, Sean. I'm not going to make the same dumb mistakes."

*

Mark's employer knows a thing or two when it comes to channeling the talents of young geniuses, because instead of pushing him away, Mayor Winklevoss gives him _more_ work. Specifically, he's tasked Mark with finding out whether anyone has been skimming funds from his accounts. Sean's still a little worried, though--he doesn't trust any of the Winklevii any further than he can throw them.

The morning before Mark's first day on his new assignment, Sean goes into the living room at six in the morning and knees Dustin in the head.

"Mmmmfff," says Dustin, and buries himself deeper beneath his quilt. Sean sighs and scratches the back of his leg with his big toe.

"Moskovitz, wake up, the house is on fire."

"What!?" he says, sitting up immediately, sleepily frantic.

Sean snickers. "Sorry, just kidding. I want you to go with Mark to work today."

"What? Why?" he says, still coming up from the thrall of whatever dream he was in. He puts a hand down his boxers and absentmindedly adjusts a pretty impressive case of morning wood. "Mark can handle himself."

"Yeah, but I'm not so sure he can handle the Winklevosses on his own. So _you_ are going to go with him and keep an eye out."

Dustin's mouth goes tight around the edges. He's wide awake now. "You think they might try something again?"

"I don't know," says Sean. "But I'm not gonna wait and find out."

 

*

The Winklevoss twins must have been satisfied with their warning, because they don't lay another finger on Mark. But what actually happens is worse, and it comes in the form of a snitch named Eduardo Saverin. Sean thought he had nothing to worry about while Mark was pulling twelve hour days down at City Hall, but he blinks and all of a sudden this Eduardo kid is warming Mark's bed at night. He's got to be up to something--all it takes is a few shitty coffee dates and a dinner at a terrible restaurant in the North End (the drinks are always watered down and they overcook their steaks) before Eduardo is moving in with a tractor trailer's worth of hair products and off the rack suits.

Sean makes his way up to the third floor with an armful of hoodies that Mark tried to stash in the closet Sean and Dustin share. He suspects it was to make room for Eduardo's suits--Mark doesn't usually show an interest in reorganizing his storage space. The door is unlocked, so Sean pushes into the apartment without knocking and dumps everything unceremoniously on the bed. He grudgingly admits that it's a nice little spot they've got up here. The late evening sun filters through the window, covering everything in a wash of gold.

"What are you doing in here?" Eduardo is standing behind him, shirtless with a can of spray mousse in his hand. _Spray mousse_? Really, did he not get the memo that 1998 was over?

"Nice place," Sean says, ignoring the bitchface Eduardo's directing at him. "Where's Mark? I thought you had a date tonight."

A stormcloud passes over Eduardo's eyes. "He had to work late."

"But wasn't the whole point of you moving in so that you could spend more time together?" Sean pushes aside Eduardo's clunky laptop to make room for himself to sit on the bed. The mattress is made of that expensive orthopedic fluffy stuff, and it feels like heaven.

"Sean, please go. You stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours, okay?"

Sean gives Eduardo a pleasant smile. "Okay, fine. Let's shake on it."

"You can't be serious." Eduardo is staring at his hand like he's got a grenade hidden somewhere.

"No, really, I am. We're both businessmen, let's make it official. From now on, we will no longer fuck with each other."

For a second, Eduardo looks almost hopeful. His shoulders relax a little, and he extends a hand out to Sean. His grip is perfect, not too hard, and not too soft. But Sean doesn't let go when he's supposed to. Instead, he reels Eduardo in until they're close enough that he can smell the mouthwash coming off Eduardo's breath every time he exhales.

"You know, that's a great bed you've got there," Sean says thoughtfully. "Mark's old one used to creak like hell; Dustin would come in and yell at us to knock it off. Talk about a mood killer."

Sean watches with absolute glee as all of the color drains from Eduardo's face. Eduardo wrenches his hand away and takes a step backward, emotions flickering across his face in quick succession--shock, rage, pain. Sean can't keep the grin off his face; there are not enough words in the English language to express how much he has wanted to take this guy off his high horse from day one. He had Mark first, and nothing is ever gonna change that.

"What? Sean, what are you saying?" He's practically shaking with anger.

"Welcome to the family, Saverin."

He claps Eduardo on the shoulder and heads back toward the stairs, whistling all the way.

*

As Sean and Mark add more people to their network of contacts, his personal share of the workload lightens up a little bit. He doesn't have to be present for every drug deal or rigged sports event, and so his schedule opens up enough that he has time to think of long term strategy. What they really need is to invest in a few more properties at some point, so they're not running all their operations out of the apartment.

"I want something like a bar or a restaurant, so it won't look funny if people leave at one a.m." Sean is on the phone with his buddy Mackie. Mackie is tight with the Irish, has his fingers in everything.

"Sorry, Parker, I can't help you there, not with the kind of money you have to spend."

Sean pushes up his glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose, tired. It always comes back to dollars and cents in the end. They're growing steadily, but their capital needs often outpace their bank account balance.

"Look, if you're looking for an opportunity to make some extra cash, the market for guest workers is really hot right now. All you need is a basement they can stay in on the way to their next destination."

The offer is tempting, it really is. He's done it before, and he was good at it. The money had come in so fast back in California that it made his head spin. On the other hand, Mark has very explicitly stated his feelings against it.

"Sorry, Mackie. I'll pass on that one."

"Why--Zuckerberg's girlfriend not like it?" Mackie is the only one sympathetic to Sean's feelings about Eduardo. "We can be discreet, I promise."

"I can't take a shit without this guy watching," Sean says in reply. He kicks at one of the stubborn tufts of weeds that are steadily choking out what little grass is still alive out behind the house. "He spends all his time here, even when Mark's not around."

The screen door whines as it's pushed open again. Sean turns to find Chris leaning against the railing of the crumbling steps, arms folded over his chest. He doesn't look happy.

"What is it now? Eduardo run out of tampons again?" Sean sneers.

"Look, Sean. I don't know how you did it, but Eduardo is currently having a small nervous breakdown over the three thousand dollars worth of Thai pornography charges that just appeared on his credit card statement."

Porn was the easy route, he could have just gone ahead and made it look like Eduardo was selling confidential information about his clients at the bank. This way, he'll just lose his job and be out of their hair forever. It's Sean's job to protect Mark, to protect the business. He'll do it anyway he has to.

Sean hisses into the phone. "Shit, Mackie. Look, I've got something I have to deal with on my end, but I'll see you next week, right?"

He makes a mental note to put Mackie into his calendar (not that he ever checks it anyway), and turns around to face Chris with his most reassuring grin.

"What, you want me to teach you how to do it?" Sean asks innocently.

Chris opens his mouth, then closes it again. "Yes, actually. But only _after_ you wipe the charges from his account. And don't think I won't tell Mark about this if you don't."

Chris gives him one last glare for good measure, then disappears into the house again. Sean just rolls his eyes. Lit majors. They have nothing useful to offer society, but they like to complain about everything.

The next morning, Chris waylays Sean on his way to get coffee--he refuses to use that machine that Eduardo bought--with an approving smile and a squeeze to the shoulder.

"You did the right thing, Sean. Thanks."

Sean does his best not to hurl. He may have lost this battle, but you better believe he's going to win the war.

 

*

It's a cool Saturday in May, and Sean has stolen Christy away from her parents for a little pre-graduation brunch at Mistral. He's still kind of hungover from the party Dustin threw for Chris last night, but Christy is is one of the few people he's willing to brave the sunlight for. Not to mention that the feeling of luxury that hangs in the air here is a welcome change from the permanent undergraduate lifestyle he's been living.

"You've really got a giant hate boner for this guy, don't you?" says Christy. Her face is full of barely contained laughter[. Her mortarboard is perched jauntily on her perfect hair as she takes another sip from her greyhound. Sean feels a vague sense of guilt at the way that, between the pressures of senior year and the business end of things taking off for Sean, they've drifted apart.

"It's not that I hate him, I just don't trust him, and that's different." He stabs moodily at his salmon, which isn't as good as he thought it would be. "He's been monopolizing Mark's time constantly for the last six months. Every time I turn around they're making out or holding hands or playing fucking card games. And not even real card games, but like Go Fish, and War. Who the fuck does that kind of shit?"

She steals a fingerling potato off his plate and chews thoughtfully. Christy always does that-order a salad or some other kind of low-fat healthy shit and then eat half of his food. Long ago, he got into the habit of ordering the biggest entree on the menu so that he could still leave with a full stomach. The one time he brought this up, she accused him of calling her fat and drove the heel of her Louboutin stiletto into his toe. He slides his plate closer to her so she has easier access.

"I think you're jealous." She sets her glass down, the edge smeared with pink from her lipgloss. "You think you have a claim on Mark because you fucked him first, and now you're upset that he's looking at someone else."

"Okay, you know what? That is not true. Sean Parker does not get jealous of anyone."

"Right. So when you mentioned having Moskovitz accidentally run him off the road, that was just a joke."

"No, that was serious. I'm pretty sure Mark thinks he's exotic and hot just because he's Brazilian. He doesn't even get the way Mark operates. Every time I look him in the eye, I know he's thinking of ways to drag Mark back to Miami with him so they can be the gay power couple of the month in _The Advocate_. And we all know that's not what Mark wants."

"Wait, he's Brazilian?" Her fork freezes in the air while en route to Sean's plate. "And from Miami?"

"Exactly. He's probably a Republican, too."

"Tell me his last name."

"Saverin." Sean narrows his eyes. "You know something about him?"

"No, I just...I worked with an Eduardo Saverin that summer I was at Lehman." Her smile goes soft and fond. "He was a nice guy."

Sean scoffs. He was her coworker, what's the big deal? Sean considers himself a feminist, but really, sometimes girls get emotional over the dumbest things. "Anyway, I'm tired of talking about that waste of space. Tell me what you're doing after graduation."

"Well, my parents are going to kill me for wasting my degree, but I have enough to buy up that spot in Allston that I've had my eye on for a while. I have an appointment with the realtor for Tuesday."

"So you're going to be official now, eh?" Sean is proud of her, but also a little sad. She didn't even consult him first before going through with this. It's like no one even needs him anymore.

"Yeah, I am." She settles into her chair, looking completely content. "It's a pretty standard setup out front, but there are plenty of rooms in the back for, you know, private events."

"I always knew you'd be a success." He signals for the waiter. "You know what? I know it's only eleven thirty, but fuck it--this calls for some champagne."

*

"Forty-eight, forty-nine, five fucking thousand dollars, gentlemen." Sean kisses the stack of bills between his fingers before stuffing them back into the glove compartment. "And that, is how you do business in this town."

Dustin can't keep a smile off his face as he takes the corner that will bring them home. It's been a good night--they've been putting down roots in a few neighborhoods that even the Italians and Irish aren't interested in; little enclaves of immigrants who need fast cash and can't get it from anyone else. And today was payday, so now they're rolling in it.

Sean peels a couple bills from the top of the stack and passes them back to Billy. "Happy Birthday, Olson."

Billy offers him a weak smile, sniffs. "It's not my birthday, but thanks, man." The lifestyle is taking its toll on their earliest backer; it shows in the increasing number of dinners he's getting off the back of a mirror. When he dropped out of Harvard last semester, Sean was all for encouraging him to go back home to his family in Chicago. Some people just aren't cut out for this. But Chris feels responsible, and insists that they babysit him from time to time.

Dustin gives Sean a disappointed look. "Sean, don't--"

"Don't do what?" Sean refuses to play this game where they speak in code about things. His dad taught him that if you have something you want to say, you should say it outright. "We don't cut people off just because they made a few mistakes."

An uncomfortable silence has settled over the car when they roll to a stop at an intersection. A second car pulls up next to them, blasting loud music with a heavy bass beat that rattles the windows.

Everything happens so quickly after that. The driver rolls his window down and aims a semiautomatic rifle at the door of the SUV. Billy yells something and Sean ducks reflexively, but he's not fast enough. There's a loud report of gunfire and a shattering of glass, the squeal of rubber on asphalt. When Sean looks down, there's nothing to see but a bright red stain creeping down his pants leg.

"Fuck, Sean, fuck, are you okay? Is anyone else hit?" It's Billy, pulling at the lapels of his suit jacket and asking a million frantic questions all at once.

Sean tells Dustin to go after the shooter, he's fine, but Dustin just sits there for a few seconds, shocked. Sure, they've all taken a few punches, maybe wound up a with a broken finger or three at this point. But Sean is the first one to be shot. He tears his pants leg open; tries to get a good look at the wound. The bullet didn't penetrate, which is good, but it looks like it nicked his femoral artery, which is bad. He presses down on his leg and tries not to think about the speed at which his blood is oozing through his fingers.

Dustin's mouth flattens into a hard line. "We're going home," he says, and puts his foot to the gas pedal.

By the time they pull up to the house, Sean is already feeling more than a little lightheaded. Dustin and Billy guide him carefully into the kitchen, since it's got the best floor for bleeding on. His leg is a steady, throbbing mass of pain; it's difficult to focus on the voices floating above his head. There's an argument about whether or not they should take him to the hospital, which is dismissed by Mark, who immediately begins making calls, his voice tight and upset.

Sean doesn't really care about any of that, because he's so, so tired, and all he wants to do is close his eyes for a minute, and rest.

 

*

Sean wakes to the strange absence of pain from his leg, and for one horrifying second he convinces himself that he's an amputee, before he realizes he's just drugged to the gills. He doesn't have his contacts or glasses on, so everything's a messy blur--the outline of the sunlight leaking beneath the edge of the curtains, his cell phone on the bedside table, and Mark, who is in a chair with his feet propped up next to Sean's knees, tapping away on his computer. At first Sean assumes he's hallucinating--the loose, easy feeling in his limbs tells him they've got him on the good stuff. Not as good as the stuff he keeps in his dresser drawer, but good enough.

Mark ignores him until he's finished with whatever it is he's working on, then sets the laptop on the foot of the bed and just stares at Sean, unblinking, for a few long moments.

"Gimme my glasses, I can't see," says Sean. He holds out his hand, waiting for them to drop into his palm. He's surprised when Mark's blurry outline approaches and slides them directly onto Sean's face. He almost gouges Sean's eye out, but Sean is still amused at his clumsy attempt at caretaking.

Sean pushes the pile of blankets onto the floor--he's sweating like a bitch--so he can see his injured leg. It's mostly hidden by a swath of gauze, but the edge of a bruise peeks out from beneath, an inky black and blue splotch that he pokes at with one finger.

"Ow." The pain radiates dully from the wound site.

Mark just smirks at him. "Did you see who it was?"

It all happened so fast--it could have been anyone. Sean shakes his head no.

"Because Billy thinks he's saw someone, and..."

"Billy's full of shit," Sean snorts. "He's a good guy, but don't look to him for information." The drugs seems to have shut down his BS filter temporarily.

"Tell me what to do, then, Sean. You didn't see anything, Dustin didn't see anything, but if we let this just lie it's only gonna get worse for us."

He puts a hand on one of Mark's bony knees.

"Mark, are you offering to go out and kill people for me?"

Mark pointedly pushes Sean's hand away and puts it back on the bed. He's already thinking about what his next move will be.

"Of course I am," he replies. "You're important. I can't manage the Winklevii and the expansion on my own--I need you alive."

"And that," Sean says around a yawn, "is the kind of information you need to share with Princess Finance up in that little tower of yours."

The chair creaks at Mark sits up straight, away from Sean. "Eduardo knows everything about the business that he needs to."

"Right," drawls Sean, incredulous. Mark actually believes this, that he can keep this charade up without everything exploding in his face. "So he knows all about how you killed Paul? How you shot him in the face?"

"You told me to." He says it like an accusation.

"What, he didn't have arms or legs you could aim for? He wasn't even carrying." Sean watches him cycle back and forth between anger and upset, his breathing growing harsh and panicky. He knows Mark still thinks about that night. Sean sure as hell still does.

"He was going to kill you." There's the slightest hesitation in Mark's voice, like he's beginning to doubt himself. "You said to _shoot him_ , I did what you asked me to. "

"Are you telling me you wouldn't care if I took a gun to Chris' head?" Sean knows he's losing control of this situation, that whatever drug they've got him on has made his feelings short-circuit. All he can think of is how he wants Mark to hurt. "Fuck you, he was my friend."

"You can't tell him, Sean."

And once again, they're back to this. Him. _Eduardo_. Like he's the only thing that matters. He wasn't even there in the beginning. If it weren't for Sean, Mark would just be a dropout living in his parents' basement who spends all his time getting into raging arguments with people in the comments on Slashdot.

Sean is too tired to talk about this anymore. He pulls a quilt back over his head, not even caring how petulant he must look right now. It's easy enough to give in to the drug-laced desire to fall asleep again, but he's awake just long enough to notice that Mark doesn't say goodbye before he leaves.

 

*

Sean isn't one for sitting still a lot of the time, but the rare exception is when he sits down to clean his gun. It focuses him, grounds him like nothing else does. He usually does Mark's too--he's jammed up more than one by forgetting to take care of his piece after a night at work. This time, Mackie is keeping him company, smoking like a chimney as they trade gossip like two old women.

Dustin frowns and cracks his knuckles when he catches sight of Mackie. "What's he doing here?" he asks, like Mackie isn't even there. It's a perfectly reasonable question, but Sean's fingers tense on the pistol grip all the same, immediately on the defensive.

"Does it matter? He's with me."

Dustin eyes him for a moment longer, then grabs his keys from the hook on the refrigerator door and slips out into the night without another word.

"So," Mackie says as soon as the door shuts, "when's Zuckerberg making his break from the Winklevii?"

"What?" Sean says, distracted. He's trying to keep the corrosive gun cleaning fluid from splashing into his eye. "He's not breaking with the Winklevii yet, that's bullshit."

Mackie shrugs, his longish bangs falling into his eyes. "I'm just telling you what I've heard. Jimmy Flaherty said he's been asking around about commercial properties for sale in Cambridge, too."

There's a loud ringing in Sean's ears. Mark has been making moves and not telling him. Sean has been sitting on his ass, behaving, following all of Mark's stupid rules about what they can and can't do or sell and where it has to happen because--

"You said you've got some guys coming in next week, didn't you?" Sean asks.

Mackie's got a cigarette halfway to his mouth and he pauses, intrigued. Sean's been good up to this point, refusing Mackie's near-weekly offers to let Sean in on the human smuggling business. But it's crystal clear now that Sean's position here is slipping, and he needs to do something big to get back on top again. He's noticed their landlord giving them increasingly suspicious looks--that's an uncontrollable element they need to eliminate. It's time for Sean to start doing some serious work on getting enough cash to buy the house outright.

"Yeah, I do," Mackie replies, cautious. "Why?"

A drop of the cleaning fluid backslides onto Sean's hand, burning quick and deep. "This time, I want in."

 

*

Sean sets it up so that the transfer goes down the night of the Winklevoss election. They've worked hard to secure the mayor his fourth consecutive win; and so a celebratory party is already planned. There's more than enough distraction going on that no one notices Sean disappear for an hour once things get underway. He heads down to the little apartment building he bought out in Dot, a piece of shit structure with crumbling walls and leaking pipes. It's perfect for what he needs to do.

An hour later, he watches a dark van pull off down the street and turns the locks the first of three deadbolts on the apartment door. It now houses six scared kids from Honduras and Sean's got ten thousand dollars, cash, burning a hole in his pocket. He feels like he's riding on top of the world. How did he forget how easy this was?

Sean slips back into the house and tosses the wad of cash onto the top of his dresser. He slaps on a bit of cologne; knocks back a cocktail of Xanax and cough syrup because it makes him feel good and it's been a long day. Mark had them up since seven that morning checking in with the various polling locations to make sure things went off as planned.

He heads to the kitchen and claims a half-full bottle of Stoli. Even if he didn't watch Dustin unload all his loot after yesterday's trip to the distributor, Sean could've told you that he threw this party. There's no bartender in sight, just a few billion handles of alcohol and mixers spread out across the counter in sticky disarray.

He knocks back two shots in quick succession, and closes his eyes tight so he can feel the effects coursing through his veins. Dustin's girl of the moment, Stephanie something or other, stumbles into the kitchen and grabs a fifth of tequila and some orange juice. She's cute in that Ivy League liberal arts way, spandex tights and Uggs and too many scarves. Sean winks at her, and can't help but feel a little cocky when she bites her lip and smiles back. Yeah, she wants him.

The smile is wiped off his face when Eduardo appears, the top two buttons of his shirt collar open, a hickey pressed into the skin of his neck right beneath his jaw. The old, familiar anger registers somewhere at the back of his mind, but the edges are dulled by the alcohol. Sean is a friendly drunk; he just wants to have a good time.

He raises his shot glass in offer. "Want one?"

Eduardo hesitates, then shrugs. Sean grabs a second glass and brings everything over to the kitchen island.

"Bank is good?" Sean asks. He licks at his thumb after a bit of alcohol sloshes over the edge of the glass.

Eduardo eyes him steadily, then knocks it back in one smooth motion before gesturing for another. "Yeah. Why do you care?"

"I'm only trying to make conversation," Sean says, his voice a bit raspy from the alcohol.

"Just pour." He pushes his glass back towards Sean. And fine, whatever, Sean was just trying to be friendly, but if Eduardo wants to keep being such a prick, then two can play at this game.

The music playing in the living room floods Sean's ears every few minutes when someone comes in looking for a drink, but he ignores it. They've been in the same room for an half an hour without trying to kill each other, and that's a small miracle in and of itself. Both of them are pretty shiftfaced at this point. It takes Sean longer and longer to pour each shot as his hand-eye coordination goes out the window.

Chris sticks his head in when they're at five-and-five. "How's everything going in here?" he asks, in that nosy way he has. If they want to drink themselves under the table, they should be allowed to drink themselves under the table.

"Fuck off," Eduardo and Sean reply simultaneously.

"Ookay," Chris says, and departs just as quickly, not at all like a guy who Sean watched slit some girl's throat last week.

"He's gonna tell Mark," Eduardo slurs mournfully. Eugh, he's one of those maudlin drunks. Sean hates those guys.

"Let him," says Sean.

Eduardo seems to ponder this for a moment before nodding and holding out his hand for the bottle. "I don't think I can manage a glass anymore."

Sean snickers. Lightweight.

Eduardo takes a long pull from the bottle and coughs a little before handing it back.

"So, where were you tonight, Sean?" He's using that faux polite, Miss Manners, private school graduate tone of voice that fools people into thinking he's a nice guy, only Sean's too smart for that.

"Jerking off in your bed," Sean sneers.

"See, now that wouldn't quite be possible, because Mark was blowing me in that very same bed then."

Sean's comeback is interrupted when the bottle of vodka suddenly disappears from his hand. He turns to look for it and sees Mark standing behind them, looking not at all pleased. Chris is hovering behind him with a concerned look on his face, that narc. It's the first time he's seen Mark in days--they haven't talked much since the shooting. Mark doesn't really trust Sean anymore, that much is obvious. It's not fair, really. Sean never did anything but tell him the truth. Keeping Eduardo around is going to get him nowhere fast.

"Hey, Mark," says Eduardo, and gives a little wave. The motion throws him off balance, and he has to grab onto the countertop to remain upright. His face is bright red, and he looks at Mark with a soft and adoring expression on his face, like a nine year old girl who just got a valentine from her schoolyard crush.

Mark sighs and goes to help Eduardo off the stool. The change in physical orientation makes Eduardo turn a sickly green. "I think I'm gonna puke," he mumbles between the fingers clapped over his mouth.

"Can you make it to the bathroom?" Mark asks, in a voice that is ten times more patient than it ever was when Billy showed up on their doorstep like this, or when Sean overindulged a little at Christy's place.

"Um. Maybe?"

Mark shakes his head and smiles-- _smiles_ \--at him, before getting an arm underneath his shoulders and half-carrying Eduardo out of the kitchen.

Chris lays a reassuring hand between his shoulder blades. It's not enough to distract Sean from noticing how he slides the near-empty bottle as far away from them as possible, but it does help to focus his mind away from the nauseous feeling that's climbing up his throat.

"Maybe it's time to throw in the towel," Chris says.

Sean shakes his head stubbornly. People have called him a lot of things--a liar, a cheat, a womanizer, a brilliant, forward-thinking businessman. But no one will ever call Sean Parker a quitter.

*

Sean signs his signature on the last of the stack of papers with a flourish. There, it's done. They own the house in Cambridge free and clear, now. He's been funneling the money from his work with Mackie through a number of accounts for the past few months in Switzerland, Mexico, investing in a few "businesses" that were just rented office space with nothing inside.

He shakes hands with the realtor, a guy recommended to him by Celuzza, someone who didn't ask questions when Sean wanted to pay for the entire thing up front.

"Thank you, Mr. Parker. It's been a pleasure," he says. His palms are a little sweaty, like he's nervous. Sean just tightens his grip and lets his smile widen.

The house is in that low level of activity that never stops regardless of what time it is when he returns. It's been pouring for the last couple days, so things are slow. He can hear the television running in the kitchen, smell the familiar aroma of onions and butter wafting through the air--Chris must be watching one of his cooking shows again.

Dustin is camped out on the couch, staring at his cell phone with a frown.

"Hey Sean, when you ask a girl for a second date and she says she's busy for the next two weeks, what does that mean?"

"It means you should get Billy to tail her for a few days and find out if she's lying," Sean replies. He squeezes Dustin on the shoulder and gestures toward the kitchen. "Come on, I have an announcement to make."

"Where's Mark?" Sean asks Chris, who is watching Biba Caggiano fry eggplant with an intent expression on is face. "I've got news."

"Still asleep," says Dustin from behind him. He pulls an onion out of the skillet, doesn't even flinch from the heat. "He didn't get back in until a couple hours ago."

"Well, wake him up," Sean says, impatient. "And turn the TV off."

Dustin exchanges a loaded look with Chris, who shakes his head tightly. Chris grabs the remote and kills sound, but leaves the television on.

"Why don't you just tell us for now," says Dustin, folding his arms across his chest. It's an unconsciously defensive move. Everyone's behavior has been off since they put Winklevoss in city hall for another four years , and it's setting Sean on edge. On the other hand, if Mark isn't here yet, he gets to tell the story _twice_. He taps the envelope with the deed to the house in it against his thigh a few times, indecisive.

Fuck it. Who is he kidding? This isn't news that can't wait, they need to figure out how many days they're gonna give the old lady on the second floor before they kindly ask her to relocate.

He shakes the sheaf of papers out into the palm of his hand, then takes three quick strides across the kitchen where posts them to the door of their wheezing old refrigerator with a magnet from the pizza place down the street.

"Gentlemen, as of today, we are now the proud owners of 39 Inman Street."

"Sean, stop fucking around," says Chris, and reaches for the remote again. "We don't have nearly enough to buy the house and still have sufficient cashflow to manage the business."

Sean is about to protest such an abrupt dismissal when there's a loud knock on the door. That's weird. Everyone who comes here has a key, or the cell phone number of someone with a key. No one ever knocks.

"You expecting somebody, Sean?" Dustin says, an accusatory expression on his face. His fingers linger near his waistband, where Sean knows he has a gun tucked away. "One of your new friends, maybe?"

"Don't look at me like that, Moskovitz." He's so fucking sick of being treated like a ticking time bomb. So he likes to pay a visit to the pharmacy in his dresser drawer every now and then. He still had Mark's back since day one. "It's probably Eduardo coming home because he forgot his hairspray."

Dustin's frown is genuine, but Sean can see that Chris is trying to hide a smile.

"Look, I'll go get it," says Sean. "It's probably someone trying to sell you Girl Scout Cookies."

The floorboards creak under his feet on his way back to the living room, where he peeks past the side of the curtain. Parked outside their front door is not one, but two patrol cars. The neighbors across the street are lingering on their porch, curious to see something go down. Sean drops his forehead against the windowsill and tries not to panic. He'd covered all his tracks, he knows he did, unless maybe Mackie, or no, definitely Saverin...

"Who is it?" calls Dustin from back in the kitchen.

"It's the fucking cops," Sean says.

Chris's face goes stone-serious. He yanks the apron over his head and steps away from the stove. "Let me handle this, I'm the only one here without a record."

Sean is only too happy to oblige. He lingers just out of sight around the doorway when Chris opens the door, his best, most welcoming smile on his face. This can't be happening, and aren't the cops supposed to announce themselves, anyway?

"Good afternoon, sir. I'm Officer Albright with Boston PD, and we're looking for a Mr. Sean Parker?" She doesn't stumble over the words at all as she flashes her badge, even though the way her fingers twitch near her holster tells him that she's green, straight out of the academy. This is probably her biggest arrest so far.

Sean doesn't move from where he is; he just waits for Chris to sell him out.

"What for?" is all Chris says. He projects total calm, like he thinks Albright is here to hand him a flier for the upcoming Police Athletic League Ball.

"Sir, we're working with the FBI--we have an outstanding warrant for Mr. Parker's for arrest for conspiracy to smuggle aliens and take hostages, money laundering, and trafficking in ransom proceeds."

Later on, when people ask Sean what that day was like, he'll make up stories about the bright red pulse of the lights on the patrol car and the heavy, pinched feeling of the handcuffs as they clamped down on his wrists. In reality, he just checks out once the officers step inside, and the only thing he can think of is that Chris must have forgotten to turn the stove off, because he can smell the acrid stench of burnt onions hanging in the air.

*  
Sean spends nearly thirty-six hours in lockup. He doesn't even bother to use his one phone call, because who would he get in touch with? Mark knows he's here, Christy can't do anything, and his parents already think he's a fuckup anyway.

His cellmates are a sullen prostitute in pink spandex and a guy so large he looks like he could break Sean's neck between his index finger and his thumb. Sean just keeps to himself. There's a foul-smelling toilet in one corner with a number of mysterious stains, and he waits until he absolutely can't hold out any longer before slipping inside. He thinks of ways he could try and induce an asthma attack; he doesn't have his inhaler with him, and don't they have to take him to the hospital if he gets sick? Or maybe he should stay here, Mark should be here soon. Unless--unless Mark's not coming, although Sean has tries not to think about that.

Sean feels like he's about to start clawing his skin off in frustration when the door creaks open again. It's Albright, and she looks pissed as hell.

"Parker, come on," she jerks her head towards the entrance of the station. "You're out on bail."

He scrambles to his feet--no one has to tell him twice. There's a barred doorway between him and the outside world. Through it, he can see Mark waiting in a hard plastic chair, slouched against the wall with his eyes halfway shut. Sean can see the tension in his jaw, and in the way he keeps rubbing his hands up and down the fabric of his neatly pressed trousers. Chris must have dressed him today.

Albright brings him back to the desk where he was fingerprinted and processed. The officer on duty tells Sean to wait there while they retrieve his personal belongings. He watches Mark get to his feet and stand there, twitchy and unsettled, until the officer hands over his phone, his keys and watch. The loud buzz of an electronic lock heralds his release, and Albright follows him into the waiting area, giving him a long droning lecture about not leaving the state and his trial date and a whole lot of other shit he's not bothering to listen to right now.

"Mark," Officer Albright says, and Sean's ears perk up a little at that. "You really know how to pick your friends, don't you."

"Erica." Mark rocks back and forth on his heels, hands buried in his pockets. "Four years of top notch education in the field of criminology so you can guard roadside construction projects. I'm impressed."

"Fuck you, Zuckerberg," she sneers. "I don't know how you're connected to this guy, but trust me, we will catch up to you."

"I'm sure you'll try." Sean watches his face shutter, and he knows that whatever went down between the two of them, it wasn't good. He twirls the car keys around an index finger and turns to Sean. "Come on, Sean. We're finished here."

*

Sean watches the police station recede in the rear view mirror, although he doesn't really start to feel comfortable until they've put a few miles behind them.

"Thanks, man. I don't know how this happened. Eduardo probably had something to do with it; I always suspected that he was a snitch, look at the way he--"

"Sean, shut up," Mark says. Sean can't help but notice how tired he sounds. At the next light, Mark fumbles one-handed in the glove compartment, then tosses a fat envelope into Sean's lap. Inside is a plane ticket and a shiny new fake ID, among other things.

"What's this?"

Mark doesn't take his eyes off the road. "You always said you liked California--now you can go back."

"I can't leave the state without bringing the Feds down on my head, you know that." He starts to cram the contents of the envelope back inside.

"Don't worry about it. Chris is taking care of the charges--Albright isn't the only person we know with Boston PD. But you have to leave, now."

"Come on. This was a mistake, Mark. They pull this shit all the time, you know how it is with cops and their ego trips."

Sean is nervous, because he can see Mark closing himself off, because he doesn't know what Mark is thinking. He _always_ knows what Mark is thinking. Sean notices that they're not headed home, but in the opposite direction.

" _People_ , Sean." Mark's anger is made obvious by the way the little gauge on the speedometer keeps ticking upward. "You had fifteen people in that house; it was like you were deliberately trying to destroy us."

Sean wishes he could dial back time to when they were always on the same page. A year ago, they used to finish each other's sentences in their haste to outthink one another. That Mark would have understood what Sean was trying to do with the house up in Dot. Now, he's not so sure.

They pull up to the departures terminal for United Airlines. Sean is having a hard time believing that any of this is real. Mark wouldn't just dump him like some lackey who's been run up on one too many misdemeanor charges...would he?

"I closed a deal on the house," Sean says weakly. This is not at all how he imagined this conversation taking place. He wonders if the deed is still where he left it on the refrigerator door. "I did it for you, for us, so we could--"

"I know, that was good." Mark's fingers flex on the steering wheel. "But you can't stay in the city, Sean. The cops know where we live now, they'll have eyes on us, they'll be watching everything we do and I know how you--"

"Okay," he interrupts, not in the mood for Mark to run off a list of his faults again. "So I'll go away for a while, lay low until things get quiet." That makes sense, he can live with that.

"I made sure Chris bought you a first class ticket," is all Mark says. "Your things will arrive at the apartment we've set up for you before the week is out."

One of the airport parking people yells at them to keep it moving, and Sean kindly tells her to fuck off before he realizes that, given the outstanding warrant hanging over his head, that was maybe not the greatest idea.

"So this is it." Sean fingers the edge of the envelope. There's a note inside in Chris' careful handwriting that he probably won't bother to read. "After all this time, you're just cutting me off. I thought--I thought we were friends, Mark. Family."

Mark looks right at him, finally. "I never said we weren't."

Sean can still see that uncertainty, there, hidden behind all the brilliant flashes of insight, his ruthless ambition. There's a part of himself that Mark will always hide--the part that's still a scared kid out on the industrial docks, gun in hand, wondering if he should pull the trigger.

The parking attendant sticks her head in the passenger side window. The smell of her cheap, Designer Imposters perfume makes Sean gag a little. "Look, buddy, I don't care who you are, but if you don't get outta here in the thirty seconds I'm calling the cops."

As much as he would love to piss this chick off, he also doesn't want to pay a visit to a maximum security penitentiary any time soon. He leans on the handle and lets the door swing open.

Mark rests a hand on Sean's arm to hold him back for a second, and Sean hates that his immediate response is to feel a little hopeful. "Maybe one day, if you..."

"Yeah--maybe." Sean punches Mark in the shoulder, gets a small smile in return before stepping down onto the curb and pushing the door shut.

Sean tells himself that he's not going to look back as Mark merges into traffic. Looking back is for suckers and people with regrets, of which Sean is neither. But at the last moment he does it anyway, turns around and blows a loud, wet kiss in the direction of the retreating vehicle just as it disappears around the corner.

On the way inside the airport, Sean flashes the parking attendant his biggest smile, friendly and movie-star bright. He never really liked Boston, anyway, with it's shitty weather and even shittier people. It's time to move on, and California's gonna welcome him home with open arms.

He's Sean Fucking Parker, and he's got a plane to catch.


End file.
